À l'envers à l'endroit
by LesMisLoony
Summary: For all these years, Constance has kept Wolfgang's secret. Now she needs him to accept hers.


Constance had not stopped toying with her cup through the entire meal. I knew she had news, and I knew she knew I wouldn't like it. She never would have asked me to meet her in public at a café unless she wanted to be sure I wouldn't make a scene.

I looked around at the other diners. This wasn't exactly a good section of town (we wouldn't be able to afford it if it was) and something told me that a public outburst here wouldn't follow me for very long. Some of our neighbors might smirk for a few weeks, but that would be the end of it. News from the higher circles of Vienna trickled down to the masses in a matter of hours, but it rarely went the other way. I couldn't imagine that high-strung count Rosenberg gossiping with my porter or lurking in the local hat shop.

I could make a scene here. Constance's news must be worse than I imagined if she hadn't taken all of that into account. If my wife's head had been clear, she would have waited with whatever it was until we were in a very important place, like a public concert or a lesson with a rich heiress.

But then, Constance wouldn't be with me if it were a private lesson. Maybe it was my head that wasn't clear.

I watched her trace the handle of her cup with her finger three more times before I had finally had enough. I threw my napkin onto the table. "Well?"

This was her cue. Countless times, I had seen her look up at me from beneath her lashes, her pretty lips pursed into a pout, as she admitted to me that she had spent the last of our money, or broken the vase of flowers an admirer had sent me, or burned a hole through my best jacket. I waited, as I always did, but the pout didn't come.

My stomach dropped when I saw real tears in my wife's eyes. She did not lift her gaze from the table at all, but dropped her hands and brought them over her stomach.

I had never seen her so reticent. My annoyance drained away as my mind began forming the worst possibilities: her mother was dying, or Constance herself was ill! My tone was gentler when I said, "Tell me, love. You can tell me. I won't shout."

She met my gaze at last, dread in her watery eyes. Was she still afraid of my temper, or afraid of what she had to tell me?

Constance bit her lip. "I'm pregnant."

* * *

><p><em>"We're going to take care of you."<em>

_I had never heard anything more beautiful than those words. My own music could never capture the goodness, the grace, the sheer sweetness in Constance Weber's voice and in the adorable blush that spread across her cheeks when I took her hand. I would have never dared ask for such a thing of someone - thus far, my whole life had been a series of tests thrown at me by my father, a desperation to prove that I could stand up for myself without him - but from her, from this golden angel, a promise to help was an enormous relief._

_The room to which she led me was up in the eaves of the inn, with a sloping ceiling and a splintering beam. A window with no glass overlooked the narrow street below, letting in a long shaft of dusty light. "This is our floor," Constance said, her cheeks still brilliantly flushed. "Aloysia would stay here if she ever came to visit. This way you're our guest, and Mother can't ask you to pay."_

_"I'll find work," I promised eagerly. "I've only just arrived in Vienna, but I already received a letter from a librettist working in the royal court!"_

_She didn't meet my eye. "Soon you'll be too famous for our inn. They'll give you lodgings at the palace."_

_"And I'll say too bad!" I cried, throwing out my arms. My sudden enthusiasm earned a startled giggle: a fragile, rare sound. I was so charmed that I seized her by both shoulders and kissed her cheeks. "I'm honored to stay with your family," I told her. "When I begin to receive my salary, I shall pay for the finest room here."_

_She peeled one of my hands away from her arm and brought my knuckles to her soft lips. "Perhaps it is you who will take care of us, Wolfgang Mozart."_

* * *

><p>"I'm pregnant," she murmured, raising her fearful eyes to meet mine.<p>

It was not what I had expected to hear, to say the least, and I certainly had no desire to draw any additional attention to it. My hands simply froze around my cup, and for the longest time I could not make them unclench. I stared at the soppy dregs of my tea, wondering what a fortune-teller would see in those murky shapes. Could the fleck off to one side be a child? A baby with Constance's soft, pale features and large blue eyes, I supposed. We would announce it as the first of a new generation of Mozarts, but a handful of people would know the truth. My father would know the truth.

I paid for our meal and went home without a word, Constance trailing behind me.

* * *

><p><em>Aloysia's cold laughter twisted around my heart and constricted my lungs. I watched her moving along down a row of admirers, smiling from behind her fan and lowering her lids whenever they complimented her as though she had not just crushed my heart beneath the heel of her boot. The small man at her side shot a haughty glare in my direction, and I caught myself straightening the collar of my mourning jacket, self-conscious. She had recognized me at once, but too much time had passed while I was in Paris. It was not the same. We were not the same.<em>

_I remembered the day she had clutched at my hands as I pulled away, when she had reached after me and begged me not to leave her. Why hadn't I stayed? One letter from my father, and I had lost everything._

_She went back inside and I felt a curtain fall somewhere inside me, eclipsing the stage lights and sending me back into the shadows of obscurity. It was over. She was gone._

_I tore myself away from the theater, but after only a few steps I felt my knees buckling. I steadied myself by putting a hand against the wall, but I felt like I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe. I could hear an echo of my own voice calling for help in broken French, and see shadows of strangers who turned away in disdain. It had been raining, and my mother had lain on the muddy, foreign ground and smiled at me one last time before she closed her eyes. "Promise me you'll go back to your father," she had said. "He loves you, you know."_

_I had promised her! I dropped to my knees, still trying to catch my breath. Behind me, Aloysia had gone and the crowds were dispersing in the dark. I heard a few titters as they noticed me, the stranger with messy hair and a cheap mourning jacket who was kneeling in the middle of an alley, alone. I was completely alone. I was drowning._

_"Father! Father, look! It's Wolfgang!"_

_The sweet voice pierced the heavy clouds that obscured my mind, and when I lifted my head I realized that the moon hung bright in the sky. I turned to see a wide-eyed girl - no, a young woman - with a long, elegant neck and a crown of golden curls. When our eyes met, she impulsively gathered up her lilac skirts and ran to me, dropping to her knees and cupping my face in her hands._

_"Wolfgang," she said again. The word was a crisp whisper. I knew her._

_The roar of my thoughts were slowly receding at the sight of her, and finally I was able to remember that bright-eyed gaze. "Constance? Constance Weber?"_

_Her smile brought the sun back into the night sky. I let her help me to my feet and hold my arm until her father had hired a carriage to take me back to my hotel. Her younger sisters hovered behind their mother, giggling at me and whispering to each other, but Constance was blessedly silent, holding me firmly upright. When the carriage arrived, I was sorry to let her go._

* * *

><p>I stood in the entryway while Constance closed the door. The hallway before me seemed like an impossible puzzle: on the left was the door to the study; on the right, the bedroom. But which way was I to turn?<p>

Her soft fingers touched mine, and I did not pull away. I had never pulled away before, not since the night she had learned my secret. How could I pull away now? But I could not look at her face.

"Wolfgang?" she whispered.

Despite myself, my grip on her fingers tightened.

"Nothing will ever, ever change how much I love you," she whispered. "Since the first time you smiled at me from across the salon."

"Who was it?" I asked, my voice lower than I expected. "That butcher's boy Conradin Mazo who keeps stopping by for tea while I'm away? That- what's his name, the Italian wigmaker- Belsito something?"

"What would you do if I told you?" she asked.

I fell silent. My wife had always had a remarkable way of navigating my dramatics. Sometimes I had to curse her shrewdness.

"We had an agreement, didn't we? Since the beginning. And the way I love you is different than all of that, than any of them. You know that. I tell you about all of them, whenever you ask, just like you tell me. That's the agreement."

I finally dropped her hand. "We didn't agree to a child."

"We could name it Léopold," she murmured.

I didn't have to look at her to know that her hand was on her stomach again. "We could name it Conradin," I retorted, and I slammed the door to the study closed behind me.

* * *

><p><em>"Is it good news, at least?"<em>

_I saw my hands folding the letter neatly and tucking it back into its envelope, but I was not the one instructing them to do those things. I was sinking, sinking right through the earth while my father loomed larger and larger. I barely even heard my own voice as I whispered Aloysia's name._

_Her dark eyes were filled with tears and malice by the time I pulled away. The door sounded too loud when I closed it, separating us with an awful finality._

_Down at the road, my mother was waiting in the carriage, her thoughts visibly far away. I knew that she was planning our trip already, mentally calculating whether our belongings had expanded beyond the suitcases we brought with us to Mannheim, and whether to pay a carriage or suffer taking a coach all the way to Paris. I could barely see her: my vision was filled with that last image of Aloysia, doubled over with her arms outstretched as the door swung shut. Even in outrage, she was exquisite! A few months, I had promised her. In a few months, I would make a name for myself and I would return, worthy of being hers - if she would accept me._

_I would have to tell her, first. I would have to tell her the secret that only my parents and sister knew. I dared not imagine how she might react to it. If I was famous enough, if I was successful enough, such details would not matter to her._

_I was still poised at the top of the hill when I heard a timid sound from behind me. I whirled about; had Aloysia followed me? But my hopes dropped away when I saw one of Aloysia's little sisters with something clutched in her hands. It was the prettiest of the three that weren't Aloysia, the dreamy blonde with the enormous blue eyes. I couldn't think of her name: the only words in my head were "Aloysia" and "Paris"._

_"Wolfgang?" she said, her voice so small that I almost couldn't hear it. She held out whatever it was she had brought with her._

_I took the scrap of fabric and frowned at it. "A handkerchief."_

_"I got it for you," said the sister. "It's Aloysia's."_

_"Oh!" I folded the handkerchief against my heart. "Does she love me, then?"_

_The little sister just stared._

_"Never mind," I said. "Thank you!" And I swept the girl into an embrace. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend she was Aloysia, bidding me a proper farewell._

* * *

><p>The portrait of my father glowered at me from the mantel. I pulled my chair to the center of the room, facing it, and threw myself into the seat. Sometimes when I stared at the portrait long enough, I could hear an echo of my father's voice in my mind. It always began with things he had said to be before.<p>

"A chance? A chance! You've already had all sorts of chances," he had spat at me, so long ago. "You've squandered all of them! Your travels, your meetings, everything! Even your poor mother..."

I shook my head at the portrait, as I had done in person on the day he had spoken those words.

"And now," added the voice in my mind, "now you have ruined your marriage - if ever such an arrangement could be called a marriage."

If he had been here in person and spoken those words, I would have leapt to my feet and shouted at him. But it was not my father who had thought such a thing: it was me, using my father's voice.

"You made me this way," I told the portrait. "After what happened with Nannerl, it was your choice. It was your choice to rob me of a life I could have led, to present me to the world the way you did. Everything I am, everything the world thinks I am, was your decision. You ruined any marriage I might have had the day you named me Wolfgang."

Now the memory of my father's voice was silent. I kept my seat, glaring into those unmoving eyes as the sunlight began to fade beyond the windows.

It was almost evening before I heard her step in the hall, and my raging thoughts began to settle. In the shadowy room, I could finally see what I needed to see.

"I'm lucky to have met Constance," I whispered aloud. "No one else would have kept your secret the way she has. No one else would carry on loving me once they heard the truth."

I could not think what my father's voice should say, so I put the chair back at the desk and I left the study behind.

* * *

><p><em>The Webers' house was a flurry of inexpensive dresses and overwhelming hospitality, my grim-faced mother the only still point in the room. I felt like there were young daughters everywhere, giggling at me from behind their hands and whispering excitedly into each others' ears. I concentrated on being gracious: after all, this man might be my key to making an impact on the local music scene and having my work recognized at last. Where else could I write music for a German opera but in Mannheim?<em>

_My poor mother was making no effort to hide her disapproval of it all as she sat rigidly in a chair next to Cécilia Weber and haughtily refused all their hospitality. I hoped that they wouldn't fault me for it; she had tutted at me the whole ride here and reminded me of my youth and inexperience in all things. I saw my mother scrutinizing the mother and the daughters alike while their father bustled about the room pointing out knickknacks and paintings he valued. I had been introduced to the three girls, but I couldn't seem to remember any of their names. The youngest were just children, better suited for playing make-believe than helping to serve me tea. The oldest, a sweet-faced blonde, kept meeting my eye, turning bright red, and hurrying out of the room, only to return some time later with a doll to pass her sisters or a clean spoon to lay on the table, as though that had been her reason for leaving. I smiled reassuringly at her a few times, but only got a frightened stare in return. Her mother finally sent her to play the harpsichord in the corner while we waited for the eldest daughter to return from her music lesson._

_I watched the girl's fingers move painstakingly over the keys as she picked out a familiar melody: it was a song I had written. I could see her lips moving as she sang along, but couldn't make out the words. Every time her voice rose loud enough for us to hear, her mother would shriek at her to be quieter. Even my mother tried to defend the little thing, but it wasn't needed: the girl just went on playing as though she were alone in the room. I was rising to my feet to approach her and ask to hear her lyrics when her oldest sister entered the salon, and I forgot about the wide-eyed blonde entirely._

* * *

><p>"Constance?"<p>

She was sitting in the wooden chair by the bed, composing a letter to her older sister. I don't know why a part of me thought she would be hovering by the door of the study or perched nervously at the edge of the bed as she awaited my absolution. She knew that I would come to her. She trusted me. She alone truly knew me - the real me.

I stood uncomfortably by the bedroom door while she put away the ink and paper and got to her feet. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground - so she was afraid of what I would say after all! It crossed my mind that I should leave her in unhappy anticipation for another moment, but when I remembered her tears at the café this afternoon I couldn't bear the idea of it. I crossed the room in a few steps and gathered her hands in mine, clutching them to my heart.

At last, she lifted her eyes. "I'm sorry, Wolfi. I should have talked to you first."

"Yes," I agreed, "but you've been talking for years. I haven't been listening. And I know how much it will mean to your mother."

"As for Conradin, I haven't told him. I haven't told him about the child, or about you. He has no reason to suspect."

"You're my wife," I interrupted. "It will be our child."

Constance nodded, sagging against me with relief, and I gave in to the urge to bundle my arms around her and bury my face in her neck. I closed my eyes, thinking of all the times we had held each other, the nights we had spent with our arms around each other, the days we had gone out hand in hand. I would have done anything for her, for the woman who had been the blushing girl in the lilac dress I had overlooked for so long. For the way her little fingers had tangled over my music the day we met; for the way she had offered me a stolen handkerchief to ease my aching heart; for the way she had pulled me to my feet on the night when I thought I had lost everything and stood firmly at my side ever since. For all those times, and for all the countless others, I would be the father of her child.

Constance was the one to break the embrace, kissing me lightly on the jaw and pushing a bit of hair behind my ear. "If you could start over from the beginning," she said, her gaze locked to mine, "and if you could choose your own path this time, would you still want to be called Wolfgang?"

I kissed the end of her nose. "Raimund is a nice name," I said, and when she pursed her pretty lips into a scowl I couldn't hide my grin.

"That isn't what I meant! If you could go back to your birth and choose for yourself! Would you have chosen to be like your sister? Or would you have him call you Wolfgang and go on with your secret all over again?"

"If I could choose," I said slowly, pressing my forehead to hers. "I don't know. My answer changes every day. Maybe I could have done better than Nannerl. Maybe I could have transcended the barriers she couldn't."

"Maybe. But Nannerl has your gift too, you know."

"I know."

I couldn't think what else to say for a moment, and Constance distracted me by cupping my cheek in one hand and running the other through my hair, letting her fingers trail down the side of my neck to my collar. I took the hint and began unfastening my waistcoat, which earned another of her sparkling smiles. I kissed her, grateful all over again for how well I knew her mouth, and for how well she knew mine. I had never expected anyone to accept me, had been told all my life that I would have to be private and solitary in order to keep my secret, but then I had met Constance - and she loved me.

With a wicked edge to her broad smile, Constance slid her hand right down into the front of my breeches. "Might as well get this out of the way," she said, withdrawing the slightly-squashed orange I kept there and tossing it into the corner. I drew my undershirt over my head while she brought my breeches down over my feet, leaving me in my stockings and my bandages. I started to untie the end, but I fumbled with the knot for too long and Constance impatiently swatted my hands away. "I washed sheets and mended clothes in my mother's inn for years, remember," she reminded me and she pulled end of the bandage free. "All you've ever had to do is hold a quill."

"And play the harpsichord!" I protested.

"And play all sorts of beautiful instruments," Constance amended, kissing me. "Now, spin."

I obeyed, holding my arms above my head and turning slowly in place so that Constance could unwrap the bandages that bound my breasts. I took a deep breath, sighing at the freedom, but Constance, still fully clothed, had pushed me onto our bed and pinned me down with another kiss before I could exhale.

Perhaps I could hold a quill and play instruments, but Constance knew how to play my body, her fingers dancing on my skin, lingering and nipping and always earning a grunt or a gasp. It wasn't until that hand slid between my legs and the first of those fingers curled inside me that I moaned aloud, sweat beading on my brow and upper lip the way it always did. She knew how to make quick work of me, to leave me panting amidst the rumpled sheets while she went to the basin and nonchalantly washed her hands.

I waited until she came back, stripping down to her shift as she walked, and crawled into the bed at my side. She draped an arm around my waist and nestled her head between my breasts, leaning up once more to kiss my jaw. "We could call the baby Raimund," she said lightly. "If you don't want to be subjected to another Léopold."

I stroked her hair, watching the way her long lashes fluttered over her cheeks. "Wolfgang," I blurted.

Constance tilted her head so that she could meet my eyes, her sweet brow furrowed. "For the baby?"

I shook my head. "For me. Wolfgang. If I could go back, if I could choose again. I would let it all be the same, let my father name me Wolfgang and dress me in breeches and present me to the world as his son."

"Why?" she asked, but her smile told me that she already knew.

"Because it's Wolfgang Mozart who gets to marry Constance Weber," I told her. "And in my life, that has been the only thing that mattered."

"Good," said my wife. She found my hand beneath the sheets and wrapped my arm around her, lacing our fingers together so that my palm was pressed flat against her stomach. "Now say good night to Raimund and go to sleep."

I obeyed, as I always did, and my dreams were filled with her golden haze.


End file.
